


BBCSH 'Percolation'  [PG-13] for dysonrules B-day!

by tigersilver



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 05:04:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why so many? ‘Nine thousand’, Sherlock says, and he should know. An essay into the use of given names amongst atypical couples.</p>
            </blockquote>





	BBCSH 'Percolation'  [PG-13] for dysonrules B-day!

BBCSH ‘Percolation’ 

Author: [](http://tigersilver.livejournal.com/profile)[**tigersilver**](http://tigersilver.livejournal.com/)

Rating: PG-13

WC: 3,400

Summary: Why so many? ‘Nine thousand’, Sherlock says, and he should know. An essay into the use of given names amongst atypical couples.  
  
A/N: And I don't even know if you follow Sherlock, BB, but this is for you, any road, with hugs and kisses. Love to [](http://dysonrules.livejournal.com/profile)[**dysonrules**](http://dysonrules.livejournal.com/), with happy, furry, stripey-hugsters. From Tiger.

  


  


“Sherlock.”

“Sherlock.” 

“Sherlock.” 

“Nine thousand repetitions, John,” Sherlock says one day, a month or so after he’s returned from the dead. “Or thereabouts.” 

“Excuse me, what?” 

“Diminishing now, though, and always less than I have, of course. John.” 

John blinks rapidly, thinking hard. He’s in his chair, Sherlock’s at the window, Mrs Hudson’s downstairs and all is right in the world. There’s no cases at the moment; they’ve just moved back in. Together. 

“Less than—er, nine thousand of _what_ , Sherlock?” 

He’s out of synch, despite the ghost-of-Sherlock that’s been living in his head all this time, subtly nudging him towards evidence, towards conclusions based on them. Simply, he’s at sea, mainly because he’s out of practice with the real item. 

“Separate instances of my name, John, as spoken by you. At least nine thousand and that’s only the merest cursory extrapolation, based on this last thirty days. I must admit I counted them for just a short while back in the beginning, from Bart’s, but I’ve long since lost track. Still.” He pulls a face. “Nothing to worry over.” 

“Worry over?’ 

Sherlock leaves the window with a swirl of blue silk and flops on the sofa, possibly sullen, possibly not. John eyes him. 

“That much?” He’s a bit appalled, John is.  “Really.” He coughs gently. “Nine thousand.” He’s never thought of it, how often he’s said Sherlock’s name aloud, but now that he is, consciously, it does seem as though nine thousand is an awfully large number. “Why so many?” he asks reasonably, after a short pause to sip his cooling tea. “D’you think?” 

“Multi-functional.” Sherlock gets on with the rest of his imminent collapse. “Many purposes, John.” He’s weary, bone-weary, and John’s still working on building his strength up, nagging more than usual about meals being square and involving green crunchy things and being very often partaken of, and sleep being physiologically necessary and serving to the grand purpose of the Work; ‘Yes, Sherlock, you must. It _does_.’  It seems as though Sherlock is complying for once without much fuss. John approves. 

“Go on.” 

“Warning, chiding, affection, annoyance, reminding.” He flaps up a hand in the air as he subsides into a long-limbed heap, all stretched corpse-like, or maybe more like a male version of Snow White, splayed artfully across the saggy-comfy cushions. “It’s of remarkable use to you, my name. Sort of a verbal shorthand. _So_.” Another hand flap, feeble this time. “You use it, continually.” 

“Ah.” John thinks carefully back. “Oh…kay.” Yes, he does address Sherlock very often by given name and far more so than he does any of his other mates. Other people, in general, actually. And, yes, too, there is a wealth of purpose lurking behind most instances. It is strange. He can see that. “Does it bother you?” 

“No.” Sherlock’s clipped and fast in his reply. “’Specially as I do it myself.”  He closes his eyes, and lays unmoving. 

“Do you say my name when I’m not here, then?” John’s curious about this; has been for bloody ages. Someone, long ago, mentioned to him that Sherlock’s prone to talking to him all the time, even when he’s not physically present. He’s found that intriguing more than he’s found it irritating, so, yes, he’d like to know why. Plus, he thinks it was The Woman who said it, and anything Adler-related irks him somehow; always has. Of course, he does it to himself, this name thingummy, so it’s hardly fair to single out Sherlock for any passing disapprobation for pointing it out, what he’s merely observed. How many times _has_ he said Sherlock aloud to an empty flat, for instance? Too many.  “Is it…is it habit?” 

_His_ isn’t habit. Well, maybe it is. 

“Sherlock.” 

And this one’s to act as a goad, because oddly enough it seems Sherlock is drowsy and mostly on his way to dozing away the remainder of the morning on the divan. “Sherlock?” 

John wants him to rest, naturally, but he also wants to hear. Every word from those lips. 

“Sherlock.” 

“Eh? John?” Sherlock sits bolt upright with a jerk, clutching the back of the couch with one hand to steady himself and swinging his messy head about so he can face his flatmate. His once-again flatmate, now they’re both back at 221B. Mrs Hudson is ever so pleased. “What, John? What is it?” 

John’s pretty sure Sherlock’s feigning. 

“Sherlock.” And that one’s intimating surprise and perhaps a bit of annoyance, because John _wants_ to know _why,_ now Sherlock’s brought up this active use-of-name-as-shorthand habit that’s arisen between them and he doesn’t much appreciate Sherlock nodding off in the midst of his learning. Or acting as if he is. “How did you arrive at nine thousand? And, more importantly, why do I say your name so often? It’s not as though I need to.” 

“Wrong. You need to.” 

Sherlock draws himself promptly and abruptly into a paperclip-shape by wrapping his arms round his knees and then stares vaguely at the empty hearth, turning his chin away from John’s enquiring eyes. It’s summer and there’s no fire laid ready. 

“Sherlock,” John coaxes, ever so soft.

“To ground me,” he replies, eyes wide open upon the firedogs and not seeing a thing, John’s sure. “To prevent me…from being.” He shrugs and John winces in sympathy at the fleeting expression that blinks across his worn-thin face for an instant, no  more. “You know.” 

John does know, though he’s amused and a bit fretful Sherlock’s not explicating clearly and precisely what ‘you know’ and a shrug intimates. But he’s not had to correct Sherlock’s course in the social sea lanes more than a few times since the man’s return home. Something has changed him, fundamentally. Or, if not that, then Sherlock’s simply become more adept at blending in. 

“Not so much, now,” John replies gently, and it’s a measure of all they’ve not lost that he knows exactly to which Sherlock refers without explanation and he’s offering comfort and not of the false sort. “I don’t need to.” 

“…No.” Sherlock tips his bum and tilts a hip, unleashing all the length of those mile-long arms and legs and propelling himself ‘round ninety degrees, feet slamming down flat to the old carpet with a distinct slap, hands lowering to grip his kneecaps. He’s facing John, straight on, and the strange hazel eyes are intensely focussed. “Nowadays you really only use it to assure yourself it’s me, here. And it is, you know. I’m right here, John.” 

John can’t help the grin. “I can see that.” 

“Not a ghost, John.” Sherlock’s not grinning; he seems very serious. “Although you may.” He swallows and John watches fascinated as trepidation washes across the planes of his skull, papered too thin with pale skin. “Wish I wasn’t haunting you. In person.” 

“What? No!” This makes John sit bolt upright as well, his long forgotten tea sloshing unnoticed on his trouser’s leg. He slams it down on a tumble of glossies that accumulated even in the short time they’ve been home again. “Come again, Sherlock? Because that’s a lie! I’ve—I’ve missed you, all this time. I—I’m glad you’re back,” he goes on fiercely. “I wanted you to be. ‘Miracle’, remember?” 

“John.”  

There it is, John’s name on Sherlock’s lips, and he’s looking a little dazed, John’s friend. Dubious…mayhap happy?

“I mean it—meant it!” John continues, almost to the point of rising and crossing over the short space that exists between them, the table and carpet and Sherlock’s bare feet flat, toes clenching down on the worn fringe. John’s hands are curling into ready fists on his tensed thighs, which he notes only from the corner of his eye. “ _Sherlock_.” 

There’s a silence, short and punctuated only by harsh breathing.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice when it eventually comes is soft as raspy worn velvet. “John, you hardly had much time to miss me. You had That Woman, didn’t you?” 

John snorts, loud as anything, a huff of exasperation in the hushed comfort of their flat. He always has a woman somewhere about; he’s a sociable man and that didn’t die when Sherlock did. But very few of them ever actually amount to anything. One or two, perhaps, and the most recent is Mary. _Was_ Mary.  Mary Morstan, who popped conveniently into his life when Sherlock was decidedly not there. Gave him a bit of surcease, Mary did, and John’s grateful. He’s not quite certain why Sherlock has recently taken to referring to her as ‘That Woman’ but then he’s never entirely certain why Sherlock does anything until Sherlock deigns to explain. 

No, that’s not true, even now. It hadn’t taken him much time to understand Sherlock’s reasons for ‘dying’. Not that he approved wholeheartedly but he had understood. It had made it very difficult to carry on as the offended party. 

That slight resentment aside, right now he wants to know why Sherlock’s making an issue of their names and how they use them against or for one another. Or how often. 

“That was nothing,” he growls, mentally apologizing to poor Mary, “and it’s already over. Been over since before you returned. What are _you_ saying, anyway? Are you jealous? Dog in the manger?” He laughs because it’s ridiculous. If anyone should be jealous, it’s _him_. “Sherlock?” 

His flatmate’s looking thunderstruck, so much so he assumes the classic position, hands steepled defensively under his chin, elbows digging in what must be a painful manner into his bent knees. 

“Not dog in the manger, John,” he replies, slowly, thoughtfully. “Genuinely jealous. She was here, with you. I was not.  Well, not here, but at your other flat, not that that matters. I dislike her existence intensely. I think that’s understandable; more than.” 

“Sherlock!” 

Sherlock curls a lip. 

“Jesus, Sherlock. Let’s not hold back or anything, shall we? Jealous—hah!” 

Well! That’s one for the books, isn’t it? John falls against his staidly comfortable chair back and gawks openly, stifling nervous laughter. He’s gobsmacked, really. He’d thought it would take much more time to arrive at this point, though he’d been pretty certain they would, one day. It was fairly clear from the way John had dropped Mary like a primed bomb and Mary had kindly allowed him without a fuss the very moment he’d heard rumours on the street Sherlock lived—this confirmed by Mycroft, the only possible reliable source. The way he’d dived headlong right back in his old familiar groove. Everything for his best mate, every time, no question.  No smoke without mirrors. 

He’d gone straight off after the homeless lady accosted him and consulted the smokiest mirror of all: Mycroft.  Planted in _his_ armchair less than a week after, all set. 

“You can’t seriously be sitting there and telling me you fretted over poor Mary while you were chasing master criminals down? Real arch-enemies?” John laughs like a loon because that _is_ hilarious. Very funny. “You can’t have had the time, Sherlock,” he scoffs. “And you wouldn’t; it would’ve distracted you. That’s not like you. Give over, now.” 

“Everything about you distracts me,” Sherlock retorts, scowling. “John. Thirteen to your twelve in less than five minutes elapsed. And that’s clearly it. I’ve beaten you. Point to me, thanks.” 

“Beaten me? Pardon? What is it you’re on about now?” John gathers himself together again, coming together to lean forward. If the corner of the low table weren’t there in the way and he and his friend were positioned, say, a foot or so closer, they’d be gazing intently into each other’s eyes instead of darting glances about the room and both avoiding like mad. Like the lovers he’d like to be and—judging from the nasty sour twist lingering on those lips—the lovers he’s becoming quite certain Sherlock thinks of them as already. Sherlock is not and has never been a sociopath. “Sherlock, don’t be evasive. What’s poor Mary got to do with it? She’s history, happy to be that way.” 

“She,” Sherlock’s voice is very stiff, “said your name to you, John. While I was gone, _she_ said it, most of all.” 

“And—and you hate her for that?” John concludes, bewildered. “Why, Sherlock, just—why?” 

“It’s a matter of opportunity, John.” And now John’s thinking about it, he’s thinking Sherlock’s correct. Sherlock says ‘John’ even more often than John says ‘Sherlock’. Nine thousand is a very reasonable number; it’s been years now. If he was nine thousand then Sherlock had to be ten. “She had it, I didn’t. Naturally I was jealous. Poisonously so.” He tilts his head, eyes glinting. “You understand that at least, don’t you?” 

“Jealous.” John’s stomach does a few loop-the-loops. “Er.” 

Sherlock sniffs impatiently, rolls his eyes. If he leans any farther forward he’ll be falling face first off the sofa. John does _not_ think about Sherlock crawling towards him, on hands and knees. 

Though the image is most attractive.

“It’s called _onomastics,_ the study of given names, John. Not that that’s relevant here; that’s _meaning_ of and not necessarily common usage data, but. No matter. That Woman made free of yours and I didn’t much appreciate it,” Sherlock’s all business, hands clasping instead of steepling, falling to rest in his lap, “even though I wasn’t about to prevent it. I find that excuse does nothing to alleviate the feelings evoked, though, even if logic states I shouldn’t be feeling them, as I wasn’t here to witness  any of it. Still, I could easily deduce what was happening in my absence. That Woman took liberties with you. _John_.” 

_Ohoho!_ John thinks, happily enough. _It’s a_ game _now, is it? Well, two can play_. 

“Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.” With this shushing, vaguely mellifluous collection of syllables rolling off his tongue, John does indeed finally rise, sighing heavily as if put-upon, which he isn’t, and steps carefully about the table’s jut. He stands calmly, looming over his seated friend as much as he can at his height, and lays a cautious hand upon his limp silk collar point, just so. The man’s had his wrapper on for weeks now, he thinks, and he—or Mrs Hudson, the dear—is likely going to have to force-strip Sherlock to wrestle him out of the thing for a proper washing. The man’s pulse, John notes, is rapid, exceedingly so. He’d be concerned if he weren’t so chuffed. “Sherlock, it’s what people _do_.” 

“No, John.” 

Each instance of _Sherlock_ has meant something to John: the first as a mild warning, the second in fond exasperation, the third simply in fondness, to reassure. Sherlock, no matter how odd, is…well. Sherlock is home, back to pointing out strange things from his sofa-fortress, and John is glad of it. Profoundly glad. It follows that each instance of _John_ also is meaningful, and Sherlock’s been telling him very important things about what’s going on inside him for weeks now. No, years.  Via a simple word of one syllable, inflected variously. A given name, for fuck’s sake. 

“No, John, it’s _not_ what people do, not at all.” Sherlock is returned instantly to frustrated; that much is clear. His face is tight; his lips thinned in vexation, his voice a low growl. “Normal people, when they know each other very well, don’t seem to use each other’s actual names very often, not after an allotted amount of intimate time. Married couples, for example, use diminutives or pet names far more often than their partner’s given names. If they use any form of address at all. It’s as though it’s a Bell curve, John. Very little usage at first, until the two grow accustomed, and then an apex of over-use, rather as a sign of possession, I should think, and then it declines with ongoing familiarity. Till at last it’s nothing, _nothing_ , John; all ‘he’ or ‘she’ or ‘you, there!’  but not ‘John’ or ‘Sherlock’. We’ve deviated, John; can’t you see?” 

“But we’re missing a whole chunk of time, Sherlock,” John reminds him. “I don’t think those years apart count.” 

“Yes, they do!” Sherlock insists. “They _do_.” Sherlock sets his hands on John’s hips, one warm patch on either side of John’s pelvis, clasping him lightly and keeping him in place. He looks up, his gaze clear and not as bloodshot and bleary as it had been weeks ago. He looks good, but then he always does.  “All of it counts.” 

“Go on,” John says, careful not to move an inch. He doesn’t want to give Sherlock any ideas about letting him go prematurely. “Sherlock.” 

His stasis is absolutely deliberate. It proclaims loud and clear that he’s available, as he never was to ‘That Woman’.  He’s going to deduce from this little display of clutching that it’s mutual and the whole bamboozle with ‘The Woman’, Sherlock’s supposed ‘long-lost love’, was just that: a fake out. An act. Like dying. 

His instincts have been dead on all along; it’s as brilliant as any deduction. 

John grins. Just a bit. 

“I still say _John_ and you still use _Sherlock_ , John.” The detective’s lips quirk lightly in some form of amusement, whether in reply, or at their position, about himself, or due to John’s absurdly patent lack of understanding of Sherlock’s real point. “Constantly. Why do you think that is, after all these years? We should barely be calling each other anything at all much less throwing our given names about like so many rotting tomatoes. There’s no need. It’s not logical.” 

“Well,” John grins, and walks forward a half-pace, sufficient to place his person squarely within the gap between Sherlock’s kneecaps. “I think you’re correct, actually. Spot on.” 

“About?’ 

“Us. Being deviants, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock huffs even as his fingers go taut and John’s hips are jerked closer. His nostrils are flaring and his nose is not too terribly far from John’s very interested, more than half-erect prick. John smiles more widely. 

“I’ve always been ‘not’ normal, John.” He doesn’t lift his hands from John’s hips to make air quotes but his expressive eyebrows are put to use; John gets the point. “I don’t know about you but that’s the new normal, for me. ‘Freak’.” 

“No,” John barely holds back a giggle, “you’ve always been smarter than houses afire, Sherlock, and that’s the new sexy, isn’t it? No wonder.” 

“No wonder?” They’re egging each other on and by god, it’s well past time. Time, then, to drive it home. “John?” 

“I feel this way,” John gulps, because this _is_ the sticking point. He shrugs mentally. He’s never been one to hold back.  Waves his fingers at his prominent erection, as it’s proof in the pudding. Or pants, rather. Sherlock can hardly not notice it, is what he meant by that. “About you.” 

“Fuck, _yes_.” 

Sherlock presses hot lips against John’s belly button. It’s quite the sexiest thing that’s ever happened to him. He grins and shivers, just a bit. 

“Keep talking, John.” Those lips move against John’s old worn pyjama shirt, playing him sweetly, crossing the lonely desert of flesh like water-bearing camels. “Tell me.” 

“Sherlock.” John wonders if he’ll actually be able. His throat's a bit tight, his bad leg's aching with the effort of standing this long, this still, just waiting. 

“Tell me _why_ , John.” 

John does the first thing that strikes him: he lays a hand on his chest, over where his heart thumps double-quick-time, tapping his fingers just as nervously. Raps Sherlock hard atop his tumbled curls with the other. 

“Here,” he says, maybe too quickly, when Sherlock looks up, startled. “Just here. That’s yours, too.” 

He’s no idea why he’s gone scarlet at this juncture but it’s been a very long time since he’s confessed to anyone, so… in for a pence, in for a pound. 

“That’s all yours, if you want.” 

Everything about John is steady. Sherlock's heart, if it's really him, has never been safer.

“I do.” 

John wouldn’t have guessed that being hugged strangle-tight ‘round the waist by a gangly genius with a sharp tongue, a quicksilver wit and a rapier glance could fell him so completely but evidently it can. His knees do go; he lets them. 

“John.” 

“Sherlock,” John replies joyously, quietly, as he’s tugged atop Sherlock’s ready thighs.  “ _Sherlock_.” 

“John.”

And that’s it, all she wrote. They’re done with the extraneous talking, ta, ever so much. Needless repetition, as Sherlock’s always said, is almost always boring. Almost.

Fin

“

  


  



End file.
